One Who is Depraved
by Echo Alexia
Summary: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift, and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or Beyond.
1. One and the Same

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children.  
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond."

Transfigurations 1

* * *

Anders had met Amell once before, though 'met' was perhaps a strong word. The odds of them crossing paths, especially when Amell rubbed elbows with templars, were as few and far between as they could be in their cramped prison. Yet it had happened once or twice, and it had left a sour taste in Anders' mouth.

After all, Amell had been Irving's star pupil, and Anders hated the old bastard. In retrospect, it made sense. Amell excelled in spirit magic, and with how closely tied it was to the Fade, he needed a skilled enchanter to oversee him.

Anders had no taste for spirit magic. For one thing, no pretty lass ever cut her finger and needed a spirit mage to take a closer look at it. And for another, it looked dangerously close to blood magic. Now that he had a chance to see it up close, his opinion hadn't changed.

The man, Rowland, was a mess. Standing would have been the end of him. He could only clutch desperately at the gash in his stomach, trying to keep his insides inside as the minutes ticked by. Ravaged by the darkspawn that had besieged Vigil's Keep, their taint now lay in his veins, and there was nothing healing magic could do for him.

"I wish I could have fought by your side Commander, just once..." Spittle and froth spilled forth from Roland's lips from the effort it took to speak.

"You can." Amell promised, a dark look spreading across his face. In a instant, Rowland's throat was cut, and Amell's face painted in the crimson of his blood. The air grew cold as dark energy flowed across Amell's body and into the decrepit corpse. Oblivious to the fact that he had died rather recently, Rowland stood.

Mhairi's sword was out before Anders had even recovered from the display. "Blood mage!" Moments ago, the same pretty lass had been lavishing adoration on Amell. She now looked ready to kill him. Rowland stepped between her and her quarry, and she blanched at the expressionless corpse blocking her path.

"Spirit mage," Amell corrected her, pushing himself up from his crouch and stepping up beside his grotesque creation. "Hardly one in the same."

For a moment, Anders thought Mhairi might attack the very Commander she was sworn to serve. But her unease at the necromantic animation won the battle over her rage, and she could only swallow back bile as Amell and his puppet stepped past her.

The corpse left a bitter pitter-patter of blood in its wake as it walked on. In life, he'd been Mhairi's friend, and her suffering now was clear. To Anders, it seemed cruel. There were other corpses, surely, if Amell had need of them. Darkspawn and the Keeps inhabitants, though none the ready volunteers Rowland had been.

Amell had certainly changed from the man Anders remembered. Amell the apprentice had always been eager to please his superiors: cleaning out stock rooms, running errands for the templars, encouraging tranquility in the meek. Amell the Warden-Commander was something else, and something Anders wanted no part of.

Anders doubted Amell when he claimed he wasn't a blood mage. The spells he cast as they fought their way through Vigil's Keep were unfamiliar. Clusters of darkspawn would twitch violent, and erratic, and then explode, and their deaths only seem to fuel the Warden-Commander. Anders was willing to call it entropy, but he couldn't be certain, and he wasn't interested in staying long enough to find out.

It wasn't until the emissary that Anders realized he might not be able to escape the mess he'd gotten himself into. The darkspawn mage stood out on the battlements, roaring a rather brave challenge from behind at least three ranks of its fellow darkspawn. Anders saw the beginnings of a powerful storm in the spell the vicious little creature was summoning, and Amell saw it too.

The Warden-Commander singled out the emissary with alarming precision. He raised his hand, and the creature fell. The blighter's death almost seemed peaceful, waves of magic that would have been a devastating storm rolling harmless off his corpse as he crumpled to the ground. Not even the templars could fell a mage so quickly.

It was the purest example of a mage-killer Anders had ever seen, and it was another mage. There'd been no preparation, no warning. Amell had clashed the emissary's magic with a sigh that seemed effortless, and the knowledge that he could have done the same to Anders was what made him decide he'd rather face the templars.

After their motley crew had cleared Vigil's Keep of darkspawn invasion and saved the seneschal from a talking darkspawn, they spotted soldiers along the road. With the fighting finally over, Rowland collapsed like a good and proper corpse should, and left Seneschal Varel to take his place to greet the soldiers in the courtyard. Anders had been expecting templars, and technically wasn't wrong.

Rylock was there, as usual, accusing Anders of being a dangerous murder and not just a handsome apostate she was obsessed with. The King was also there, and it was the King to whom Amell spoke on his behalf. When Rylock demanded him seized, Amell invoked the Right of Conscription, and to Anders' shock, the King conceded to him.

"We should see to the Joining-" Varel began after the royal procession had left, wholly unphased by the newest recruit to the Wardens.

"Later, Varel," Amell cut him off, "The Keep and I are in no state." While the other recruits made a show of looking put out, Anders was relieved. Despite the fact that he'd agreed, he wasn't entirely eager to trade one prison for another, and trade the Circle for the Wardens.

He was in the middle of planning his great escape when he noticed just how true Amell's words were. The Commander's walk was slow and shuffling, his shoulders slumped, and he left a trail of blood in his wake. Before Ander's could help himself, his healer's instincts took over and his mouth betrayed him, "Are you sure you don't need healing?"

Amell paused to raise an eyebrow at him, and for a moment Anders hoped he'd refuse, but in the end the Warden-Commander nodded, and Anders fell into step beside him. Survivors slowly began to trickle out of the Keep, and while Amell nodded at each man in passing, for some reason Anders couldn't find his company relaxing.

"I remember you as well," Amell offered up without warning, in the midst of their walk to his quarters.

"Oh, I don't' think I'm that memorable," Anders brushed the comment aside; he could imagine how Irving's favorite student might have seen the seven time escapee, "I wasn't the one recruited into the Wardens after all."

"So you've heard?" Amell hummed, and Anders blinked at him before he recognized it for a jest. Amell certainly didn't seem the droll sort, but maybe Anders was judging him too harshly for what he'd done with Rowland.

"There were some rumors," He smiled weakly, "Something about blood magic. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Well, not everyone is as masterful an escape artist as you." Amell countered.

"Seven time extraordinaire," Anders offered with a flourish. "And I'll have you know I only used magic once."

"You'll have to tell me about it sometime," Amell pushed open the door to the Warden-Commanders quarters. Once he took a moment to really look at Amell, Anders realized just what a mess he was. He looked pale, and his eyes had dark circles about them that spoke of exhaustion. When he lowered himself to his cot, his arms shook, and he all but fell.

Anders imagined he would have been less tired if he wore robes like a proper mage. Anders had spent the better part of his life running, but he'd never done it in full armor while maintaining a handful of auras. He had to give Amell points his eyes were even still open.

"Can I ask why you wear the armor?" Anders wondered while Amell set about removing it so they could see the full extent of his injuries.

"I don't like being stabbed?" Amell hazarded a guess.

"Then why take the lead?" Anders countered, "The warrior lady and drunken-dwarf were more than willing, while I understand not wanting to mar a pretty face, she has a helmet for a reason."

"And leave Oghren's chiseled chin to the mercy of the darkspawn?" Amell huffed, taking his first glance at his new quarters and finding a chair for Anders' to sit in. "Actually, come to think of it, I don't know if he has a chin."

"You're deflecting," Anders pointed out, "I know, because I happen to be a master of deflection,"

"Duly noted," Amell teased, leaving him without answer but in a better sort after ordeal with Rowland. Anders was just about to give the man the benefit of the doubt about his magic, when Amell finally removed his chest-piece, and Anders saw the scars.

"Hardly one in the same, eh?" Anders couldn't help himself. Most of Amell's injuries were self-inflicted, all along his arms and at his neck. A chill swept over him when the maleficar smiled.

"Hardly,"


	2. No One to Tell

"Those who bear false witness  
And work to deceive others, know this:  
There is but one Truth.  
All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies."

Transfigurations 1

* * *

"You will tell no one," Amell warned him in a tone that brokered no argument.

"No, of course not," Anders laughed uneasily; He had little doubt in his mind Amell would kill him if he did, "To each his own, right?"

"Right," Amell smiled, which was even less reassuring than the enigmatic look he usually wore. "You can go now, you know,"

It should have been his cue to leave, but something in the way he said it made Anders pause. "I can go, go, or I can go?"

"I mean you can leave," Amell clarified, "Now, while the Keep is still in disrepair and we're still searching for survivors. This is the only chance you're going to get."

"Is this a test?" Anders chuckled nervously, remembering the emissary and his nigh-instantaneous death. "Because I am terrible at tests."

"It's not a test." Amell promised. "I can't be expected to keep an eye on one apostate when I've got talking darkspawn to worry about."

"Why are you telling me this?" Anders couldn't help but ask. After the scene Amell had made with Rowland, the last thing Anders expected from the man was sympathy.

"Mage solidarity?" Amell shrugged. "Mercy has always been a weakness of mine."

"I wouldn't call mercy a weakness," Anders argued, considering what Amell was telling him. Solidarity, he could understand, even sympathize with, when the alternative might be another year in solitary if he tried to make it on his own.

"Then you've never seen true mercy." Amell declared flatly.

"I've seen the Templars idea of it. And-" And he'd seen what he assumed was Amell's idea of mercy with Rowland, and the quick death and quicker undeath Amell had given him. "And I don't really care for it. If I left, they'd just find me again. I think I could do with some freedom for a while. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll have a go at being a Grey Warden."

"Even though your Warden-Commander is a blood mage?" Amell joked, as if all his concerns were baseless after what had become of Uldrid and the Circle Tower. "Not afraid I'll force you to dance naked in the courtyard in front of all the other Wardens?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Anders quickly assured him, "I'm shaking in my knickers, but I think I've got a better chance with the Wardens than the Templars. Solidarity, right?"

"Right." Amell grinned. "Now if it's all the same, I could use a rest. If you're still here when it's time for the Joining... We'll see about the dancing."

"I'll have you know Anders' famous Spicy Shimmy is reserved for the ladies." Anders joked before he saw himself out.

Anders left feeling a great deal lighter. Amell seemed a fraction less unnerving after their talk, but only a fraction. In fact compared to the Warden-Commander, halls full of dead darkspawn seemed almost jaunty. Anders passed by a few survivors cleaning up darkspawn on his way through the Keep, grateful none of corpses were walking themselves out as they might have been if Amell was helping. Anders considered helping himself for a moment, but ultimately decided he'd already done his part.

That was, until he passed by Mhairi, who shot him a withering glare until he bent his back to join them. He picked a genlock for himself, a stout little thing that vaguely resembled a dwarf, and carted it out to the growing pile in the courtyard by its ankles.

"You fought admirably, mage," His fellow recruit told him after dumping her own darkspawn on the pile. She'd picked a hurlock for herself, Anders noted, wondering if he should feel impressed. "I fear I misjudged you."

"No harm done," Anders grinned, hoping he wouldn't be forced into any more corpse-dragging. "I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to make it up to me,"

"You have to understand," Mhairi continued, ignoring him, "The term apostate carries with it several connotations."

"Yes, mages who want a bit of freedom. We're wicked things, I know."

"It's not that," Mhairi shook her head, gesturing for him to walk with her. Given that he was eager to escape the smell of rotting darkspawn, Anders followed willingly. "It's the way apostates are portrayed by the Chantry. Not as healers, but as evil. As blood mages... Or nercomancers."

"You're a terrible tease," Anders pouted, "Here we are, picking up pieces of darkspawn together, all cozy, and you're just using me to get close to the Warden-Commander."

"The Templars need to be told," Mhairi dropped all pretenses to round on him. Her look was one of fierce determination, though she had to know he was going to disappoint her.

"Well I'll just go do that the next time I'm running away from them." Anders snorted. The poor woman must have been desperate to turn to an apostate of all people for help. "Look, I didn't like what happened with Rowland either, but necromancy isn't a forbidden magic." Though Amell was a blood mage, not that Anders was about to share that fact.

"Well it should be," Mhairi insisted, taking a shuddering breath and shaking herself for the memory of her friend's undeath. "What kind of mage does something like that? What kind of man?"

"Well, Rowland did ask to fight with us," Anders pointed out, though the moment the words left his mouth he regretted them.

"Not like that!" Mhairi hissed at him, "He wanted to fight as a soldier! As a man! Not a mage's puppet." Anders had nothing reassuring to say to her, and could only shrug until she continued, "Forgive me, I know you had no part in what happened, I just... He was a friend."

"I'm sorry." Anders said honestly.

"Thank you." Mhairi smiled; she had a pretty smile, Anders couldn't help but notice, when she finally decided to use it.

"I suppose, with all the stories... I just took the wardens for better men."

"I don't think you should judge all wardens by Amell," Anders offered the best consultation he could think of. "Or all mages, for that matter."

"No, of course not." Mhairi took a deep breath, seemingly reassured when she smiled at him in a way that made him wonder, "After all, here you are."


	3. Just an Offer

"O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places. "

Transfigurations 12

* * *

Mhairi had died. No one seemed to want to talk about it. Anders wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it, either, but he wanted someone to acknowledge it had happened. Instead, when Mhairi had slumped to the floor of the Keep's great hall, no one had so much as blinked. Varel had offered his condolences to a corpse, Oghren had grunted, and Amell looked so dispassionate that for a moment Anders had hated him.

Then it was his turn, and real terror had gripped him when he'd taken the tainted goblet to his lips. A nightmare of darkspawn later, and Amell was pulling him to his feet and welcoming him to the Grey Wardens. Varel had made him and Oghren pendants from the remaining Darkspawn blood, and said they were meant as a tribute to Mhairi's sacrifice, and that was it.

Anders had spent the remainder of the day in a bit of a slump. While he might not have been the most cautious soul, he wasn't suicidal. If there was a chance the Joining could have killed him, he'd deserved to know about it. They all had, especially Mhairi and her pretty smile.

Instead Amell had given him no explanation, not even the slightest hint. He'd offered him a chance to run again, sure, but deep down Anders knew that was nothing when the Templars still had their hands on his phylactery. For all Amell had known he could have been sentencing them all to their deaths, and it didn't seem to weigh on him in the slightest.

The day after his joining, Amell had come to call on him, though only so they could clear out the basement of a few remaining pockets of darkspawn. The ensuing combat did little to take his mind off the death he'd narrowly escaped. Fighting darkspawn as a Grey Warden was different than fighting them as just a mage. A part of him could sense them, like whispers just outside the range of his hearing, flickers in the corners of his eye.

Anders startled himself on more than one occasion, readying a spell before a door had even been opened, simply because a part of him knew a darkspawn lay behind it. Anders wanted to say it gave them an advantage, but the darkspawn seemed to be able to sense them in turn, and were more often than not ready for them when it seemed they should have the advantage.

But it wasn't the darkspawn that bothered him the most. It was the ghouls. The poor souls who had been sitting pretty in Vigil's Keep when the darkspawn had lead their assault. They were the stuff of nightmares. The taint had twisted them, giving a blotchy, sickly look to their skin that made them seem half darkspawn eyes were sunken into their skulls, colored a blind white, but not completely empty, and that was what terrified him.

There was something left in the survivors they stumbled across in the dungeons. When the men and women looked up cannibalizing their fallen fellows, Anders could see hints of who they once were in the fear and anger that lay in their eyes. When they screamed, it was almost in confusion, as if they couldn't understand what had happened to them or why. And when Amell killed them, he did it with a sort of pity that he'd been devoid of until now.

Anders stared at the body of one of the ghouls when Amell finally called for a rest. He'd been a fellow Anders couldn't help but feel looked rather familiar. The shoulder length blonde hair and the ponytail the man had kept it in were particularly striking. Anders cleared his throat and tore his eyes away. "Out of curiosity, why didn't that happen to us? We drank darkspawn blood, and we came out fine. Or, you know, died instantly."

"You drank archdemon blood and darkspawn blood," Amell clarified, without a spark of sympathy for the mention of Mhairi's death. "The combination is what makes a Grey Warden..." Amell trailed off, and Anders couldn't help but feel as if there was more he'd meant to say.

"But?" Anders pressed.

"But that's how all Grey Wardens end up eventually," Amell spared the dead ghouls a final glance, before he stood and beckoned for them to follow. "Unless Avernus can save us." And that was the end of the conversation.

It took the better part of an hour for three of them finished clearing out the Keep's basement of darkspawn and ghouls before they came to an impasse of rubble. Amell gave them the next hour to themselves while the servants cleared away the rubble.

Anders spent most of his free hour getting to know a young private who spent most of her time in the Keep's courtyard. The girl's name was Grey DeLisle, and she blushed rather prettily for him, but she outright stammered when Amell walked past. "Private," Amell only had to nod in her direction and she forgot Anders existed.

"Good day, C-commander," Grey stammered out at Amell's back, long after he'd left.

"I take it you're a fan?" Anders teased, nudging her with his elbow.

"Of the Commander?" Grey went wide eyed in such a way that could only mean 'yes'. "He's the hero of the Blight. Everyone idolizes him. Don't you?" Judging by her starry-eyed stare, Anders was willing to bet the girl felt a little more for Amell than hero-worship.

In a way he couldn't blame her. He'd heard a few things about the Warden-Commander himself, but much like Mhairi he'd been expecting someone different. He wondered if like Mhairi, Grey would change her mind about Amell if she learned the truth about him. "He's something," Anders allotted.

He found the Commander in the blacksmith's later, seated on the half wall and working away at his dagger with a whetstone. "You know, you might have warned me," Anders pointed out when he joined him.

"About what?" Amell stopped sharpening his blade long enough to give him his full attention. The sight of him with it unnerved Anders when he knew exactly what it was for.

"Being a Grey Warden," Anders clarified.

"Which part, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know." Anders wiggled his fingers, tacking off what he'd come up with so far, "The nightmares, the premature death, the chance I could have died in the Joining..."

"How many recruits do you think that would get the Wardens?" Amell wondered aloud.

"You'd still have the dwarf, but I see your point," Anders sighed. It was always frustrating to be presented with a rational argument when you wanted to be irrationally angry. "Still, not even a little hint?"

"I did give you a chance to run," Amell pointed out. "That was more than Duncan ever did."

"Sorry-Duncan?" Anders blinked at the unfamiliar name.

"The Warden who recruited me, and two others," Amell fished a necklace out from beneath his tunic; the small vial of blood matched Anders own pendant. "The first recruit died. The second got scared, and tried to run. Duncan killed him to keep the Joining a secret."

Anders whistled. "Cheery,"

"Very," Amell agreed with a grin. "Anders... For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know there was a lot of risk involved, but I hope you think it's worth it. After all, being a Warden is the closest thing to freedom a mage can hope for."

"You certainly don't seem afraid to exercise it." Anders blurted before he could help himself. Mercifully, Amell didn't seem to be offended.

"The Wardens don't forbid blood magic, Anders." Amell explained. "I could even teach you, if you wanted."

"Then why did you tell me not to tell anyone?"

"Because I don't need the scrutiny that comes with the admission," Amell explained, as if Anders needed it with Rylock and the other Templars hounding him relentlessly. "The stereotypes, the prejudice... It's magic. Nothing more."

"So you're telling me you didn't make a deal with a demon to learn it?" Anders doubted the man had simply cut his hand and realized the power that lay within blood. Even if he had, it wouldn't have taught him how to utilize it to cast some of the complex spells Anders had seen him use against Darkspawn.

"I never said that." Amell grinned mischievously, "And you never said if you wanted me to teach you."

"No offense, but I think I'll pass," Anders declined without giving the offer any serious consideration. He hoped he never did. "No reason to give the Templars more reason to come after me. Or, you know, kill me on sight."

"If you had magic they couldn't take from you, do you really think they'd be able to?"


	4. Magic and its Uses

"All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings."

Transfigurations 1

* * *

If magic was a gift of the Maker, then mages had an obligation to use magic in His service. It was a belief Anders lived by loosely, barring the occasional electricity trick in bed. He and the Chantry might not have always seen eye to eye, but he still considered himself an Andrastian, and as such tried to use his magic responsibly.

"Could you set that bush on fire?" But the past few weeks at Vigil's Keep had helped him learn his point of view wasn't a particularly popular one.

"Probably, but why would I want to?" Anders glanced down at their newest Grey Warden recruit. Given that Sigrun was a dwarf, he could forgive her abject fascination with magic.

"Could you freeze it?" Given that she was also a member of the Legion of the Dead, he supposed her lack of a healthy fear about magic stemmed from her lack of a healthy fear of death.

"Why do you want me to kill the bush?" Anders demanded.

"Because it's there! It's an evil bush! Do it!"

"Magic isn't for your amusement!" Anders stubbornly refused her, "Why don't I just do a little dance? Anders' Spicy Shimmy?"

"Oh, eww," Sigrun wrinkled her nose at him, which was just as well. He didn't want to spend the entire trek through the Wending Woods being asked to fight foliage with fire. "I'll pass."

"I'm game," Amell glanced over his shoulder at the two of them. Anders cleared his throat, but not two seconds later a bush went up in flame seemingly of its own accord. Sigrun squealed in delight.

"Really?" Anders sighed at the Commander once he realized the man had been talking about magic, and not his dancing.

"It was an evil bush," Amell shrugged innocently. Nothing was sacred with his fellow mage. Not death, and certainly not magic. It rubbed Anders the wrong way to see how irresponsible he could be, but it was hard to hate him. Callous as Amell was, he'd meant what he'd said about solidarity, and he respected Anders abstinence on blood magic. That, and he'd gotten Anders a cat. And it was impossible to hate someone who'd gotten you a cat.

"Disappointed, Anders?" Nathaniel wondered quietly. The stoic Howe was their second-most-recent recruit, and another recipient of Amell's mercy. He had been a prisoner at Vigil's Keep for attempted murderer and larceny, until Amell had freed him and subsequently recruited him. Evidently, the Wardens weren't as prestigious as Anders had been led to believe.

"A little," Anders doused the bush Amell had lit aflame before a wildfire started. "I'm an excellent dancer, you know. Her loss."

"Ah. I was under the impression it wasn't her attention you wanted." Nathaniel nodded at Amell's back, now too far ahead to overhear them.

"What?" Anders started so abruptly he nearly tripped over his robes. "No, not-of course not."

"My mistake, then," The archer shrugged, as if it were of no consequence to him.

"Why would you even think that?" Anders asked rather than let it go. He might have laughed if it off, if it wasn't the second time someone had waggled their eyebrows at him over the Warden-Commander. Granted, Oghren had been drunk at the time, but something had prompted him.

"I think it's the earring," Up ahead, Amell had called for a halt, and Nathaniel took the opportunity to lean against the nearest tree with a droll smirk.

"Oh I see how it is," Anders huffed, inwardly relieved Nathaniel seemed to have found a sense of humor, and wasn't actually calling him out on anything. "I'll have you know earrings are very popular men's fashion in Rivaini,"

Nathaniel coughed; his voice was normally deep, but when he coughed he sounded as if he were gargling gravel. The sound was cringe-worthy, and it came twice before the Howe doubled over, a hot spray of his blood hitting Anders in the face. A loud crack came neck, followed by a deep rumbling, and a branch burst forth from Nathaniel's stomach. "Nathaniel!" Anders heard someone screamed, and only recognized the voice for his own when the crazed sylvan Nathaniel had been leaning against lifted him up and flung him across the forest.

Reaching for the Fade, Anders hands erupted in a cone of frost, freezing the sylvan solid before the possessed tree could cause any more damage. Without waiting to see if it thawed or shattered, Anders turned and sprinted to where he'd seen Nathaniel land. "Nathaniel?" Anders called out, tearing through the underbrush to find his fellow Warden.

Another of Nathaniel's wicked coughs drew his attention, and Anders found him on the far side of a fallen log. Struggling his way across in his robes, Anders slipped and fell down a short ravine the log had hidden, nearly landing on Nathaniel in the process. "Don't move!" He ordered, not quite sure if the man was even able.

"No worries there," Nathaniel wheezed from a pile of branches. Anders breathed a sigh of relief that he was still talking. The armor Amell had commissioned for him had held, save for where the sylvan's branch had pierced through his stomach. Knitting the flesh was easy enough, for as long as Nathaniel held still, but it took a cleansing aura to mend the few broken rib bones Anders could sense he'd suffered in his fall.

"I have it," Nathaniel promised, though his attempts to stand revealed a sprained ankle Anders hadn't noticed over the extent of the rest of his injuries. "Help the others,"

"Stay put," Anders ordered, wondering if the archer even had a choice, but he wasn't on the verge of death, whereas Sigrun and Amell might be. Climbing his way out of the ditch with apologies to his staff for utilizing it as a walking stick, Anders struggled back to the main path to find Sigrun and Amell.

Three Sslvans had surrounded them. The demon-possessed were taking wild swings at them that Sigrun was having an easier time dodging than Amell. The dwarf was unarmed, and Anders spotted her axes imbedded uselessly in one of the sylvan's legs. Amell had encased a fourth sylvan's in a cage of telekinetic force, but the creature looked about to break free from its crushing prison.

"Sigrun, run!" Amell was in the midst of yelling.

"I'm done running!" Their newest Warden yelled back, ripping her last fire bomb from her belt and lobbing it into the face of the nearest sylvan. The explosion staggered the monster, but didn't stop it. At first Anders couldn't understand why a mage as powerful as Amell was struggling, when it finally occurred to him. The Sylvans had no blood, and Amell was first and foremost a blood mage.

Running to join them, Anders hands erupted in an explosive ball of flame, and he sent it careening into the nearest sylvan's substitute for a face. The demon with must have rejoiced at his poor choice. The sylvan lit a flame, burning continuously while it continued to fight. A charred branch fell from the sylvan's canopy, sending sparks of flame licking through dry grass, but eventually the creature crumbled, it's leg giving out underneath it with a loud crack.

By then, Sigrun and Amell had spotted him, and ran through the possessed trees to his side. Speed was the one thing they had to their advantage over the sylvans, and once his fellow wardens were clear, Anders drew on the last of his reserves to summon an ice storm that froze and shattered the sylvans in their tracks. By then, Sigrun managed to dislodge her axes from the sylvan they had been stuck in, and shattered the last of the demon-bound trees.

"Nathaniel?" Amell demanded of him.

"No, Anders, actually," Anders joked; Amell's unamused frown had him pointing to the ravine, but by then Nathaniel had climbed his way out of it.

"Here," Nathaniel called out in answer, heavily favoring his left leg, but Anders didn't have the reserves of magic left to heal him. His fellow Warden limped his way over, though when he picked a tree to lean against he did so with a great deal more care than he had before.

"You're alright?" Amell eyed the hole in Nathaniel's chest armor suspiciously.

"He shouldn't be," Sigrun chimed in, "One of those trees impaled him. I saw it."

"Fine, thanks to Anders," Nathaniel nodded in his direction, though Anders was willing to hazard a guess that they were all fine thanks to Anders.

Amell didn't give him any such credit, only glancing at Anders to ask. "Can you heal his leg?"

"It's my ankle," Nathaniel explained.

"I have a poultice," Sigrun offered, eyeing the tree Nathaniel was leaning against warily before daring to help him with his leg.

Amell nodded, before wearily dragging himself off to find the nearest semi-comfortable-boulder to sit on. Anders decided to join him, given that he was also exhausted from the ordeal. At his intrusion, Amell offered him a lyrium draught he drank greedily.

"You're welcome," Anders decided to break the silence.

"For what?" Amell blinked blearily at him, as if he hadn't exerted all his mana on complex telekinetic spells in lieu of any other way to defend himself.

"Oh, I don't know, saving your life?" Anders mused.

"You saved Nathaniel's life," Amell corrected him.

"No, actually," Anders drawled out, leaning forward on his staff, "I think I saved everyone's life there."

"I take it you want a reward?" Amell deduced.

"It couldn't hurt," Anders agreed with a grin, "I'm thinking, maybe a medal, or a trophy! The inscription could be 'Thedas' Greatest Healer,'"

"Why don't I just repay the favor by saving your life sometime?" Amell argued, "Like, say, last week, in Kal'Hirol?"

"That doesn't count," Anders pouted, though he was well aware it most certainly had counted. When they'd cleared Kal'Hirol of darkspawn, he'd nearly been mauled to death by the newest breed of darkspawn they were all calling 'Children,' until Amell's blood magic had paralyzed it. That same magic hadn't helped him at all today.

"Give me some time, then," Amell looked him over, though Anders was almost positive he hadn't been injured, and there was no reason for Amell to stare at him like that, "I'm sure I'll think of something,"


	5. Helping a Friend

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,

In their blood the Maker's will is written."

Benedictions 4:11

* * *

Amell had gotten him a scarf. It didn't necessarily mean Amell wasn't coming onto him, but it was far less aggressive than where Anders' imagination had gone. It wasn't so much that the idea of a man hitting on him unnerved him, but that the idea of Amell hitting on him unnerved him. The man was his Commander, and a blood mage, and downright intimidating. That, and Anders wasn't interested in men.

Though when Amell agreed to help him destroy his phlactery, Anders almost considered overlooking the fact. "You know, the last time I agreed to help a friend destroy their phlactery, we were ambushed by templars and I was almost made Tranquil." Amell told him.

"But did you destroy it?" Anders asked.

"At the expense of being betrayed by my best friend, yes,"

"So it all turned out alright in the end then," Anders joked.

"If you want to look at it that way," Amell laughed. To avoid undue attention, they had agreed to wait until nightfall to check the warehouse Namaya had claimed held his phlactery. With nothing else to do, Amell had invited him to share a drink at the Crown and Lion inn. One drink had turned into two and was dangerously close to becoming three.

"Whatever happened to your friend?" Anders asked.

"Oh, you know," Amell shrugged. "He changed his name, and decided to help refugees escape the blight. After poisoning an Arl at the behest of a traitor and indirectly getting a mage child possessed,"

"Well, at least I can promise you won't have to worry about me doing that," Anders waved off the barmaid for both their sakes when she passed by their table. Outside, the sun looked to have set, which meant they should be setting out soon.

"Saving refugees, or destroying an arling?" Amell wondered.

"Both," Anders laughed, "Anders' first priority is Anders. And speaking of Anders, it looks like it's finally evening. Are you ready, or have you changed your mind?"

"Of course not," Amell promised with unexpected fervor. Standing first, Amell extended a hand to help him to his feet. Anders took it without thinking, and was hauled bodily into his Commander's chest.

Amell smelled like cheap alcohol and a day of sweat, but underneath it there was the acrid tinge of magic left by the Fade that clung to every mage. After a lifetime of quick trysts in the corners of the Circle tower, it was a provocative scent that had Anders pulling hastily away from him. For Amell's part, his Commander seemed to notice nothing, and left the inn with purpose and without a word.

The streets of Amaranthine were quiet at night ever since they had cleared out the smugglers that had taken roost in the town. "I can wait for this to be over with," Anders admitted to break the ominous silence.

"I can imagine." Amell raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh don't give me that look, I'm not going to run for it the second we're done," Anders begged, wondering why he felt the need to justify himself, "I like being a Grey Warden and killing darkspawn and all that, but more than that I like being free. This is the only way I can be sure."

"We're here," Amell cut him off when they reached the back alley warehouse Namaya had told him about. "No guards,"

"Maybe inside?" Anders guessed; There was only one-way to find out.

Namaya had lied to him. It was all Anders could think once they were inside the warehouse. She had led him into a trap, and he'd brought Amell along with him. Rylock and her templars were there, and they had them surrounded. No matter how Anders might have puffed up his chest and made a scene about the crown and conscription in the confrontation that followed, he was ready to soil his knickers.

Amell was sure to hand him over; Anders was sure of it. They were out-numbered, and now that he'd recruited Velanna, the wardens had no shortage of mages less wanted by the Chantry. Anders had all but surrendered to his fate right up until he heard Amell refuse, and Rylock draw her sword.

The templars' mana clash fell on Anders like a wave, doubling him over and sapping his connection to the Fade. He caught himself on his staff, swallowing down bile and reaching into his pockets for a bottle of lyrium to help him recover. A templar's sword struck it from his hand before he'd even managed to uncork it. The invaluable blue liquid splashed across his arm and soaked through his sleeve, while shattered glass imbedded itself in his palm.

Biting down on his lip to keep from crying out, Anders blocked the next swing of the templar's sword with his staff, but Amell wasn't nearly so lucky. At any one time, the Warden-Commander maintained a handful of auras. The backlash of such a strong connection to the Fade being broken had brought Amell to his knees, and from the look in Rylock's eyes, mercy wasn't a weakness she and Amell shared.

"Amell!" Anders screamed, as if it would help them. For some reason, he couldn't help but remember Amell cheekily declaring he wore armor to keep from getting stabbed when Rylock brought her sword down on the Warden-Commander. By his breathless gasp, and the spray of blood that painted Rylock's smirking face, his armor hadn't helped at all.

"Amell!" Anders screamed again, but by then he'd drawn the attention of a second templar who grabbed him from behind. There was almost no point in restraining him, when he had no reserves of mana left to work with.

Amell coughed; it was a terrible sound: wet and thick and foreshadowing death. "Anders,"

"Say your goodbyes quickly, Warden," Rylock suggested, ripping her sword from where it had been lodged in Amell's chest. The force of the motion wrenched Amell forward, and he was forced to catch himself on Rylock's skirt, staining it an angry crimson with his blood.

"Anders... Is not the mage you should fear," Amell hissed softly. The air around Rylock began to sizzle, a hazy mist of blood rising from the floor to seep into her skin.

"Lieutenant!" The templar holding Anders shrieked, dropping him in his haste to rush to Rylock's aid. The three remaining Templars drew their swords and turned on Amell too late; Rylock already stood over him protectively, brandishing her sword while her eyes twitched spastically in her skull.

"Kill them," Amell whispered softly. For a brief second, Rylock hesitated. She twitched against the invisible confines of her own blood, and Anders could see the veins beneath her cheeks, on her foreheads, bubbling as her blood revolted against her.

Anders watched in mild shock with the rest of the templars as Rylock turned in broken clicks like a child's doll, and drew her sword against her own men and will. One by one, she cut down her comrades, who were torn between defending themselves or trying to reach Amell behind her. When the last templar fell, she turned back to Amell, and Anders feared his hold on her had waned.

"Now kill yourself," Amell ordered breathlessly. Bones crunched and muscle twisted, and before Rylock could obey, her insides revolted against their confines and splattered across the room.

Amell collapsed. Anders ran to his side and fell to his knees in a warm puddle of blood. It soaked up into his robe, and it scared him to think he couldn't tell if it was Amell's, Rylock's, or someone else's. "Tell me you have a poultice," Anders begged.

Amell shook his head; his breath came in tatters, and to judge by how pale he was, Anders wasn't sure he would last long enough for him to leave and try to find help.

"I just-hang on, there might still be lyrium in here, on one of them. I can distill it, make a potion, heal you..." Anders knew he was rambling. Amell grabbed his wrist, and to judge by how violently his hand shook, he wasn't going to last long. "I'm not leaving you," Anders promised, trying not to panic, "I'll heal you; just need to find some lyrium,"

"Here is your lyrium," Amell hissed, thrusting his hand into a puddle of blood.


	6. What was Necessary

"O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat,"  
Transfigurations 12

* * *

Anders preferred the chapel in Vigil's Keep to the one at the Circle Tower. Not only were their less templars at Vigil's Keep, but their were less mages. Anders was an Andrastian, and a mage, but he remembered the sort of mages who frequented the chapel. Apologists, all repenting their magic as though it were a curse of the Maker and not a gift from Him.

It was a gift. Anders was certain of it. He'd been certain since the first time he'd escaped the tower. Anders had been making his way along the Imperial Highway when he'd encountered Bann Ferrenly. His host had been murdered by bandits, with Ferrenly about to join them until Anders had intervened. He'd driven off the bandits without killing them; they weren't eager to test their mettle against a mage. He'd saved the Ferrenly's life that day, and he hadn't needed blood magic to do it.

He hadn't needed blood magic to save Oghren from an ogre in Kal'Hirol. He hadn't needed blood magic to save Sigrun from the bandits that had ambushed them in Knotwood Hills. He hadn't needed blood magic to save Nathaniel from a sylvan in the Wending Woods. He hadn't needed blood magic to save Velanna from the darkspawn in the Silverite Mine.

"So why did I need it to save Amell?" Anders voiced the question aloud, more to Ser Pounce-a-Lot than the Maker, considering which was more likely to give him an answer. His cat had nothing to say to him, preferring to purr and rub in circles around his legs. Anders spared the tabby a friendly scratch behind the ears, but it did little to take his mind off the fact that he was a maleficar now.

The blood magic had been necessary. Anders knew that. The templars had sapped his mana, and he'd had no lyrium potions left. If he hadn't used blood magic to heal Amell, the man would have died, and it would have been Anders' fault. But it had been so effortless, "So easy..."

"Prayer comes a bit harder to me," Amell's voice intruded on his thoughts.

"Amell," Anders leapt from the pew he was sitting in, startled, and startled Ser Pounce-a-Lot in turn. His cat sprinted away, vanishing beneath the many tapestries lining the chapel walls, and Anders almost wanted to join him.

"Am I interrupting?" Amell wondered.

"No. Not exactly,"

"Not exactly?" Amell pressed, and Anders wondered how the man had managed to sneak up on him. Clothed in dragon-hide boots, his footsteps were loud and heavy on the cobblestone when he made his way through the pews, "So I am interrupting, you just don't mind," Amell deduced, stopping a little too close to for comfort.

"Something like that," Anders brain supplied for him.

"I come bearing gifts," Amell explained, "Since we've established you deserve one every time you save my life,"

"I was just kidding," Anders promised; he wanted Amell to go away almost as desperately as he wanted him to stay, "You'll go broke like that, you know,"

"Probably, but I'm a rich man, in case you haven't noticed. I have an entire arling you can bleed dry," Gentle as the joke was, Anders wasn't sure he was ready to joke about blood magic so soon. His laugh was a little forced and awkward as a result, but Amell didn't seem to notice when he handed him his gift.

"A book?" Anders noted astutely, turning the gift over in his hands, "Who told you I could read?" He joked, flipping the book open to first page to read the title aloud, "Phylacteries: A history written in blood. You shouldn't have."

"I thought you might want to know a little more about what you're chasing after," Amell explained, inviting himself to sit down and forcing Anders to join him. "It's the only kind of blood magic the Chantry condones, when they can use it to oppress us,"

"I like it," Anders confessed, though he still didn't share Amell's opinion on blood magic. In his eyes, phylacteries were just a good example of the evils that were borne of blood magic. It was in the nature of blood magic to oppress and control. It made sense the Chantry would rely on it in their hypocrisy. "I'll read it."

"Good, I'm glad." Amell rubbed his hands together in a satisfied manner and leaned back in the pew. "Can I ask what you were praying for?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," Anders said glibly, "A harem, fresh apple pie, the collapse of the templar order."

"Well I don't know about the other two," Amell chuckled, "But we could always down to the kitchens and have the cooks get that pie started,"

"Maybe later," Anders looked away when Amell's stare made him feel anxious. He spotted Ser Pounce-a-Lot playing with the tassels to a tapestry, and was tempted to go get his cat and force it to keep him company for the solace it offered, "I think I could stand to pray for that harem a little longer," He'd thought it would be enough for Amell to leave him, but the other mage lingered, and Anders gave him a side-long glance.

Amell was staring at him intently, and made it hard to look away, "What are you really praying for? You can tell me, Anders, we're friends,"

"What does anyone pray for?" Anders sighed, caving, "Answers. There are so many verses in the Chant of Light about blood magic... But there are verses I don't believe. I don't believe the magisters of Tevinter ever set foot in the Golden City. I don't believe darkspawn are the Maker's punishment for the pride of a few mages. But I do believe blood magic is evil, that it corrupts..."

"And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars to the pretender-gods once more, and in return were given in hushed whispers the secrets of darkest magic," Amell quoted Threnodies verbatim. Anders stared at him in shock. This was the same man who had told him with disinterest in the courtyard of Vigil's Keep that the statue of Andraste was nothing more than a statue. Seeing his surprise, Amell grinned wickedly. "You don't grow up in the Circle and not know the Chant."

"I don't believe that part either though," Anders insisted.

"You shouldn't," Amell agreed. "Do you want to know how I learned blood magic, Anders?"

"From a demon," Anders guessed.

"Are you going to steal every punchline?" Amell huffed lightheartedly at him. "Yes, from a demon. Do you remember the friend I told you about? The one who's phylactery I helped destroy?"

"The one who destroyed an arling and went on to save refugees, I remember."

"Well, he didn't destroy the arling. Not directly. A desperate woman hired him to teach her son magic in secret, so she wouldn't have to lose him to the Circle," Anders bristled, but somehow managed to keep himself from interrupting with a rant on the injustice of the Circle. He'd only be preaching to the choir with Amell, "He tried, but he wasn't very good at it. The boy became possessed by a demon, and I asked for the Circle to send me into the Fade so I could fight it and save him."

"Undo a possession?" Anders blinked at him, "I didn't even know that was possible,"

"It takes a lot of lyrium, and a lot of very specific circumstances, but it's possible. But when I found the demon in the Fade, all I could think about was the damage it had done. Hordes upon hordes of undead, all at the command of one demon. A veritable army at the disposal of just one mage. And I knew this was why the Chantry feared us, and I thought, this it it. This is the power that will defeat the Blight. So I used it. And it was. And it did."

Amell sat quietly, letting all he'd said sink it. While Anders couldn't deny the kind of power Amell commanded had its uses, he also couldn't deny that it could be exploited. He had seem the gleam in Amell's eyes when he had forced Rylock to kill herself, and the memory still unsettled him. "You're not wrong,"

"But?" Amell supplied for him at his pause.

"But I truly believe blood magic is forbidden for a reason. That kind of magic draws demons, creates temptation-"

"It absolutely does." Amell promised. "All magic does. Any harrowed mage can tell you that. Blood magic, to me, is just a second harrowing."

"I don't see it that way," Anders disagreed, despite the risk that Amell might be displeased. When he dared a glance at his commander, he didn't seem unhappy with him, but he did seem a little disappointed until he smiled.

"Then it's a good thing you're not a blood mage," Amell declared cheerfully, and Anders wondered if maybe he'd imagined the man's disappointment.

"But I am a blood mage," Anders argued, and just admitting it put a sour taste in his mouth, "In the warehouse-"

"You cast a spell." Amell interrupted him, "It happened to involve blood. That doesn't make you a blood mage. Is that why you're in here?" Anders said nothing, and his silence proved answer enough, "Are you waiting for the Maker to punish you for saving my life?"

"Something like that," Anders admitted sheepishly.

"Did you forget He's gone?" Amell pressed, and for the third time since he'd come Anders couldn't meet the intensity in his gaze, "There's no one here but you and me. And I'm not about to judge you, but I'll let you pray if that's what you want."

"Amell," Anders called after him, taking his book and following him out of the pews, "I think I could for that apple pie, actually. Praying for it doesn't seem to be working,"

"I could have told you that," Amell smiled, and after a few months with him, Anders was starting to think there was nothing chilling about his smile at all.


End file.
